He has really big eyes. Also? He is very funny. I laugh almost every time he opens his mouth.Before I had 26 cousins, I had one. That one was Katie.

Before Katie was born, I was the flower girl at her parents' wedding.

(That is me, just seconds before I chickened out and tried to drag my mother along with me. I'm proud to say my boys made it all the way down the aisle at Katie's wedding without assistance, and stood like gentlemen with the wedding party throughout.)Katie's dad is my Uncle Joe, whose comments you have probably seen here.

(Katie's mom is my Aunt Alice, who doesn't love to have her picture flashed hither and yon, but OH WELL, SORRY ALICE! You're special and you must be shown.)Alice and my mom. They are sisters.

Are you following this? Good.Now I mentioned that Larry and his band were the entertainment, right? Well, I don't have a great picture of that. But if I had to capture the essence of how hard they rocked? I would capture it thusly:

They rocked very hard.It's hard to believe that it's been TEN YEARS since Katie and I were here:

It took me longer than expected to catch up from this weekend—a bonanza of running, reunions, weddings and music, that was both exhilarating and exhausting.

I have to start with a recap of the race, which was, in a word, AWESOME.

I woke up at 4am the morning of, because I couldn’t sleep through one more half-marathon-debacle dream sequence. I dreamed I was in the port-a-jon when the starting gun went off; I dreamed that my team stopped to eat a brown-bag lunch at mile 8; I dreamed that there was a musical theater troupe performing at mile 9, and I couldn’t skip it and move on, because (a) I didn’t want to be rude and (b) I was afraid to leave my purse with the kind of people who STOP TO EAT LUNCH IN THE MIDDLE OF A HALF MARATHON. When I actually awoke at 4am, I was thrilled. I could cross race-day fear #1 off my list: Sleeping through the start.

Granted, the race was still three hours away at that point, but unless I nodded off at the wheel on my way there, I wouldn’t miss it. Nor would I miss the opportunity to see exactly what my bladder is capable of. You know the expression squeezing blood from a turnip? YES. LIKE THAT. My bladder is a bit of an overachiever. Highly motivated and eager to showcase its talents, it looks forward to races almost as much as I do. Every time I exited the port-a-jon, I could hear its nerdy little voice reassuring me, “DON’T WORRY, MRS. O! I’LL MAKE MORE!”

And it did. And did. And did. As it always has and always will until the end of my racing time.Standing at the front of my corral, waiting for the start, I was convinced I needed to go just one more time, but recalling my dream from the night before I decided not to risk it. As soon as I started the race, the gotta-go feeling disappeared ... but the mob of racers ahead of me did not.

The hardest part of any race for me is the start. Depending on the number of participants, you can be boxed in for up to a mile, making it very challenging to establish your desired pace. The corral system helps a little, as long as you're placed in the right corral (and standing at the front of it), but in this case, I wasn't. My projected finish time was too slow, so I wound up in Corral 2, with 2,000 women ahead of me. It took me about nine and a half minutes to complete the first mile, at which point, the 8-minute-mile pacer (who had started in corral 1) was a mere dot on the horizon up ahead, and I knew it was going to take some serious effort to catch up with him—IF I could catch up with him at all. I (wisely, I must say) decided not to sprint, instead opting to keep him in my sight and gain on him slowly, mile by mile. Nine miles later, I was at his side and resisting the urge to ask him to marry me. A pacer's job is to be on pace the entire race--never slower, never faster--so once I was with him, I was pretty confident I'd finish in goal time.

At mile 11, my parents were there cheering me on, which was the kind of boost you’d think I’d be over at this age and stage of life, but it was just as thrilling as that time in first grade when my mom showed up to watch me eat latkes at our school's Hannukah festival even though we weren't Jewish. I was like, OH MY GOD HIIIIIII!!!! LOOKIE ME!! RUNNING!!! And then to have them joined by my brother Gordon, Larry, Gus and Patrick at the finish line … it was just … I wish I had a picture of how that felt.Instead I have a web site with Official Marathon Proofs, which I am still talking myself into purchasing, because they are $13.95 per 5x7 print, and that just seems ohhh, a wee bit excessive to me, plus WOW DO I LOOK UGLY WHEN I RUN! Hoo-ee.

Always with that PAINED, legally blind expression. Like I left my glasses at the finish line. Ow. Where am I?Anyhoo, my say-it-out-loud goal for this race was 1:49. My secret can-I-even-HOPE-for-that?-goal was to finish in 1:45.

On Saturday my cousin Katie is getting married, and Gus and Patrick will be her ring bearers. The groomsmen are wearing sage green shirts and khaki pants, and Katie entrusted me with finding the boys something suitable to match. Rather than drive all over kingdom come searching for sage dress shirts in sizes 4 and 6, I did a quick Google search, and came up with not just sage shirts, but sage SUITS. Because the more sage, the better, I always say. I always say that.So, with the help of a very fine and patient gentleman named Steve in customer service at Wear Me Out Boys, I took the boys' measurements and delivered them over the phone, and confirmed once again that Patrick is an exact miniature replica of Larry. His proportions are identical. Which basically means that his arms and Torso will be getting basketball scholarships, while his legs are standing in the winner's circle at the Kentucky Derby. I kept reading and rereading Patrick's arm and Torso measurements, and Steve kept asking me, "so this is the older boy, right?""Hold your horses, Stevie boy," I said. "I haven't told you the part about his legs yet. You'll see." Ultimately, I had to order Patrick a size five suit to accommodate his Torso (which I just now noticed I keep capitalizing, AS I SHOULD.) and the pants will just have to be hemmed.*So, before the suits arrived, I told my mother that I'd ordered them online, and she was all, "online?" As in "The Internet?" As in "OUT THERE? WHERE BAD TASTE LURKS ON EVERY PIXEL?"Yes! The very same!"How bad can they be?" I said, chuckling to myself, knowing that her brain was already riddled with pictures of hideous shiny mint green suits."Are they shiny?" she finally asked."Not according to the picture," I told her, "but ONE NEVER KNOWS."So the suits arrived, and the suits are ... Well, they are not shiny! Or mint green.

They are, however, about five shades darker than the picture on the web site; less "sage" and more "FAWN" and OH WELL TOO LATE NOW HA HA SEE HOW RELAXED I AM BEING ABOUT IT? SAGE SHMAGE. THEY'RE BROWN. Whatever! Let's drink!And yes, I plan to iron them. I also plan to remember to buy the boys' matching shoes. And I also plan to memorize the songs I'm singing at the reception. Really, I do!I'm not planning to have the words written on my hand in Sharpie or anything like that. BECAUSE I AM A PROFESSIONAL.Except I'm not. At all. I am a professional singer in much the same way that the suits are sage. Which is to say, I'm FAWN. Larry's band is providing the reception entertainment, and they have cooked up a fine selection of dance-friendly wedding songs, which they will play outside in the garden. Which is how I know that it will not rain. Or thunder. Or flash deadly lightning. Or do anything but BEAM HEAVENLY RAYS OF SUNSHINE ...On Saturday. *Rigged with double-sided tape.

On Saturday, I will be 35 years old. Or as Gus so eloquently put it, “Does that mean you’re going to die soon?”

Assuming all goes well, I like to think I still have a few good years left, but I have noticed some changes in myself lately that do not bode well for the future. I’m not talking about the wiry gray hairs shooting out of my part like rogue strands of Brillo, or the fact that I can now gain five pounds by eating a small plate of crushed ice. Those things are to be expected. I’m talking about the speed at which I am able to process information—which, to put it in scientific terms, is roughly equivalent to that of someone who is legally drunk.

I am living in a DSL world, and my brain has gone back to dial-up. The boys ask me a question, and 45 minutes later a voice in my head says YOU’VE GOT MAIL! By the time my brain types out the answer (with two fingers)—S-u-r-e, y-o-u g-u--y-s c-a-n h-a-v-e a b-r-o-w-n-i-e f-o-r d-e-s-s-e-r-t—the boys are already dabbing the crumbs from their lips and applying to colleges. Or, in Gus’s case, working on a monologue for “The Actor’s Studio.”

I comfort myself, though, that with age, comes wisdom. Even if it takes an hour and a half and a cheese knife to scrape that wisdom from the transom of your mind; it’s there. As a way of sharing my birthday with my faithful readers, I’ve jotted down a few nuggets of wisdom I’ve acquired on various topics.

On Songwriters No one gives a shit why, how, when, or with whom you wrote this next song. Just shut up and play. I want to go home.

On CraigslistIf you want wrought iron, search for “rod iron.” If you want a dresser, search for “Chester drawers.” If you want an eye-poppingly hideous plaid sofa, look for someone who’s willing to “sacrifice” theirs for $100.

On Missing ChildrenChildren love to step on your feet. Not a day goes by that one of my boys doesn’t inadvertently stomp my toes into a throbbing mess of raw hamburger meat. So! If one of your children ever goes missing, regardless of where you are, remain calm and remove your shoes and socks. The child will come running back in no time. Probably wearing soccer cleats.

The Half Marathon is 10 days away, and I’m in the process of tapering off the long runs. Two weekends ago, I (mistakenly) ran 16+; the next weekend, 13.1 and last weekend 10. This weekend it will be somewhere in the neighborhood of 9, which (thanks to the long runs) feels like leisure.

Endurance is a beautiful thing.

My knees are doing okay, considering the mileage, but they could use a little more support, which is why I decided to bite the bullet and add weight training to ye old fitness regimen. As I’ve mentioned before, despite my feeble looking muscles, I am actually a reasonably strong person. As one trainer at the Y kindly pointed out to the guy who followed me on the quad press, “That girl before you was lifting more weight than you, man.”

Pride!

But you know what they say about pride.

"Pride goeth before the thigh machines."

Holy nut. Have you experienced these things? I used one for my outer thighs, and one for my inner thighs, and honestly? I would have looked more dignified giving birth in a crowded elevator.

OH MY GOD.

THE INDECENCY!I was mortified.

And blushing! (And giggling to myself.) And feeling like any second, someone was going to walk up waving either a speculum or a $5 bill to tuck into the waistband of my shorts.

Slutty Mommy!The whole thing was just wrong.

And you know me. I don’t like to just blush in silence. I prefer to draw attention to That Which is Totally Ridiculous. So the whole time I was looking around (curiously, none of the men in the vicinity seemed to be making eye contact) for an opportunity to say something along the lines of, THERE GOES THE CHRISTIAN FAMILY ATMOSPHERE!

I guess I’m glad I never got that opportunity, but … God.The thigh machines.

Have you tasted the new Pepperidge Farm Goldfish crackers?You should know that they are FLAVOR BLASTED with Xtra cheese.Also, they smile.This morning, in an act of sheer desperation, I attempted to hide the carton. From myself. Every day after I take Gus home from school, I reach for a piece of fruit and somehow end up with my fist submerged in a bowl of these satanic crackers. How exactly this happens is a mystery.I sit next to Gus on the couch while he does his 20 minutes of reading, and before he's finished the title page, I'm bounding across the living room for a refill. By page five, the bowl is in the sink and I'm wearing the carton like a hockey helmet.NO HANDS!I don't even chew. I just open my mouth and let the Goldfish fall in. Like a whale. Or a vacuum cleaner.When the carton would not fit in my secret hiding place this morning, I decided to try a softer approach. To leave myself a friendly reminder that I deserve better.That I am an intelligent woman.Capable of making healthy choices.

On Labor Day, our favorite coffee shop hosted an outdoor event called Bongopalooza. Turns out, one of the Bongo baristas, Sean Parrott, happens to be a comedian, who inserted his hilarious heavy metal parody into a fairly earnest set of acoustic music by local musicians.I'm not sure everyone in the crowd (of mostly young-ish hipsters) knew exactly what to make of Sean's act, but I thought it was hilarious. And so did Gus and Patrick. If there's anything better than two little boys belly laughing at a comedian, I don't want to know about it. Toward the end of his set, Sean asked for volunteers, and I bet you'll never guess who raised his hand.What follows is Gus competing, very seriously, in a heavy metal dance off.

While the October print column in Her will be my last, I'm still blogging for Her Nashville until further notice. So if you're looking for something to read right now, I have this to offer:I often marvel at my sons’ unwillingness to listen and do as they’re told. You’d think they’d leap at the opportunity to do the right thing, given the clarity and care with which I present it to them. Hardly one to issue vague directives, like, “Clean your room” or “Straighten up the deck”, I am a master of specificity: “Pick up the costumes that are on the floor and put them into the costume box. Now do the same with the matchbox cars. They go in this big brown basket.”I make it so easy. And yet.(CLICK HERE TO KEEP READING)Or, you know, just go about your business. I'll never know the difference.

When the boys were younger, and no one was sleeping through the night, and Gus couldn't go six weeks without an ear infection or strep throat diagnosis, Larry and I used to pad around the the house, pawing the sleep out of our eyes and chanting under our breaths, four and six, four and six, four and six.Four and six, we believed, were the magic ages, when the boys would be boys, not babies, and life would start to resemble a lively family movie, as opposed to Night of the Living Dead Part Three: And Also? You Have to Go To Work.I don't get to say this very often, but we were right.